The Chair That Ate the Family
Grandpa's recliner groaned on cue, like ancient bones remembering youth; he'd lean it back—the whole thing cried, then swallowed him with wounded pride.
The footrest launched like pent-up rage, a bear trap entering middle age; one cousin lost a flip-flop there— three birthdays passed. It reappeared.
Between the cushions: buried lore—
dead batteries, crumbs, remotes galore
Between the cushions: buried lore— dead batteries, crumbs, remotes galore; loose change, receipts, one mystery sock, an archaeological family plot.
We joked that chair was surely cursed, but somehow loved the monster worse; it kept what ordinary years let go— our crumbs, our laughter, Grandpa's ghost.
Written by Kiana Jimenez
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